


Letters

by bananatole



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Love Letters, M/M, anyway this hurt like a bitch to write and i hope you enjoy reading it, but also the letter itself is super fluffy, curt comes home after the secon funeral, in 1950s america we write letters, it can be interpreted differently ig, more like they buried him in a hurry, so i could technically tag it as fluff too, the ending is strange bc like, they didnt leave him in the facility that they probably blew up, this is actually inspired from a personal experience, this is so sad my dudes, we write letters, writing letters for your loved ones for after you die i mean, yeah a second funeral happened in my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29811423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananatole/pseuds/bananatole
Summary: Curt returns home after Owen's second funeral and, despite himself, reads the old love letters Owen had written for him.
Relationships: Owen Carvour & Agent Curt Mega, Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> I got inspiration for this while composing letters and audio recordings for my death plan.  
> This fic HURTS, I will need to write domestic fluff or some shit afterwards
> 
> I just want to warn that alcohol is involved, although that might be a little obvious anyway :)  
> I live off of comments so please tell me what you thought of it!

Curt exhaled soundly, tugging at his silk black tie. He didn’t bother to take his shoes off when he entered his apartment and just went straight to the liquor cabinet.

He poured himself a generous amount of Lagavulin- always a man of acquired taste, although the actual taste of the alcohol made little difference to him anymore. If anything, the bottle was a gift from the agency; “Our condolences”, they had said and moved on.

The man laughed bitterly, tears freely running down his cheeks.

_Ironic how they gave a spy known for his struggles with alcohol a bottle of very expensive whiskey after he lost his partner_

Maybe Cynthia knew more than he dared to imagine. Curt shuddered at the thought. That would mean death.

To hell. What did it matter anyway, now that it truly _was_ death?

Curt Mega took a sip of the alcohol sharply, its harsh taste burning down his throat.

Yes. Soon he wouldn’t remember.

They weren’t exactly good, the terms they had ended on.

_After all, it was Curt’s own bullet that ended their peculiar relationship._

“Moving on”, they, both, had called it; Owen in a moment of loathing and fury, Curt in a moment of liberation.

Curt Mega sure as hell knew that, _no, he hadn’t moved on_.

He carried himself to the record player in the corner of the living room and lowered the needle on the record already in place. Sure enough, he only owned a single record.

_Arthur Rubinstein plays Chopin._

The spy scoffed when he realized which piece he had set the needle upon.

“Waltz Op. 34, n. 2 in A minor. Isn’t that ironic, old friend?”, he cooed, bitter tears running off his chin and into the glass of the expensive liquor.

_Socked feet gliding on the wooden floor of the apartment. Low laughs and whispers in the dips of each other’s necks. I Love Yous that turned out to be meaningless. Nothing really matters but the return to the waltzes main theme, right?_

Curt walked to the sofa, plopping himself down and closed his eyes, taking in the music before the whiskey could truly poison his mind. He would have felt guilty and selfish for allowing himself to lose that one last bit of dignity- if only he hadn’t lost it long ago.

_Pathetic, aren’t I?_

It was kind of hilarious how this scene seemed to repeat itself, four years later. The first time, Mega remembered, as much as he didn’t want to.

As if some divine power controlling it, no amount of alcohol could truly let him forget. Whether it was the funeral, the aftermath or the actual moment- that damn banana, that damn bomb, that stupid cowardly brain- Curt Mega would never be able to truly forget.

That first time he had grieved and hated himself more than he ever thought he could hate a human being. He had cried and hurt himself for that stupid mistake and he had grieved the loss of his partner. He never truly stopped.

This time it should have been different- it should have, but how could it really?- After all, what changed? It was still him who had caused Owen’s death. “By action or by omission, imputed by the perpetrator”, as so often stated by law books Curt Mega wanted to forget.

The first time it was omission. This time it was action. Only that small detail changed. Nothing else had changed.

Oh right.

This time, Owen despised him.

Curt downed the rest of his whiskey and poured himself another. He set the almost empty bottle on the table, next to a box. He shook his head at the side of it, mentally cursing himself for being so weak and selfish to still have it in his possession.

Nonetheless, he reached forward and opened it, grabbing a handful of what was inside- envelopes and stray pieces of paper. He unfolded them and scanned through them as if his life depended on it.

_My love…_

_My beloved Curt…_

_Hi there, old boy…_

The spy shuffled through them, hands shaking.

He could never bring himself to burn these letters.

Curt eyed the fireplace, dead but with a few tempting logs set neatly from whenever the last time he lit it was.

He turned back to look at the empty envelopes before him, scattered carelessly on the table.

There was one more to read. The last one and the one that hurt the most.

It hurt like a bitch the first time. This time. Mega had no idea if he could take it at all.

Against his better judgment (and more than willing to blame the whiskey for that later), he took the folded piece of paper out of its envelope, the small dried flower embedded in its long broken seal finally crumbling on his fingers.

_Ironic._

He unfolded the piece of paper and stared back at the familiar purple ink that seemed to laugh mockingly back at him. Mega stroked the words, line by line, though the tip of his pointer finger burned.

It was the same finger he pulled the trigger with.

He shifted in the sofa and began reading until the tears stung his eyes and clouded his vision to the point where he couldn’t see anymore. Even then, his brain took over- he had the letter memorized.

_Curtis Mega, my Love,_

_I do wish this letter never reaches your eyes. I do wish I am the one left behind and no pain will have to fall onto your shoulders._

_But, a spy is a spy. We never know when the time will come, do we? I want to be as prepared as possible. And if that means leaving you, I don’t want to go without giving you something of me. Is that selfish? Will that condemn you instead of free you? Does that make me a bad man?_

_The only thing I truly know is that I am a man in love, Curt. I can’t be bigger than myself. I am sorry if this only brings you pain, but I can’t bear the thought of leaving the man I love entirely. I cannot bear the thought of not leaving a piece of me right there._

_My body might rot, but my words aren’t going to sooner than you, my love._

_I want you to know that I have never loved a human being more. I didn’t even know I could love so much. We joke that the job makes us emotionless machines with no capacity to understand any emotion. And yet, I cannot keep myself from being overly sentimental and cheesy as I write this to you, I cannot keep myself from being selfish and wanting to comfort you even when I am not here._

_This world is cruel, Mega._

_Yet, I’m more than content living in it if that means I can wake up knowing you exist in it._

_Even more knowing that you are mine and I am yours._

_Wouldn’t it be incredible, love, if we can actually get married one day? I would want nothing more than to settle down with you, cook shitty food and play darts during the evenings. Perhaps get a dog? A breed that’s active so we can play out in the fields and soak up the sun._

_Maybe we’ll be able to fix our atrocious sleep schedules and actually take in its rays happily._

_And then, during the nights-_ (the ink during this part slightly bled from dried tears from when the brit wrote it) _\- we could sleep soundly next to each other under the blankets your mother knit for you that one Christmas eve. The dog would sleep on our legs and I would stroke your hair until you fell asleep and snored just slightly._

_It would make me the happiest to think that you are reading this when you are eighty years old, sipping that stupid cake of a coffee you like to drink- I will never for the life of me understand how you can have so much sugar in a drink- and a dog or two by your side. Preferably in our cozy little home, after we have both retired and lived comfortably._

_You know I adore you, right, Curtis Mega? You are the sun I orbit and the only person in this world I trust with my life. Please live well for me. We shall meet in (where will we meet? If there is a heaven, would we even be allowed in there? haha)—you know what? It doesn’t matter where it is that we’ll meet in because I am bloody certain that it will be Paradise because we will be together._

_Take care of your mum and Cynthia for me, will you? And, for the love of everything holly, Curt- take care of yourself for me._

_-Forever Yours_

_Owen Carvour_

Curt tightened his grip, crumpling the paper that already had similar marks of previous treatment embedded in it.

He set the paper down and reached for the bottle of Lagavulin to empty when he took a glimpse of what was left on the table right beside the box of letters.

Another envelope, oh so familiar. This one, fresh and unopened. 

Crème and with a red seal that concealed a flower with its stamp- it formed a “C”.

It had been delivered earlier within the day, right before the american left to attend the funeral.

He chuckled at he took it in his hands and broke the seal using his fingernails.

Inside, another piece of paper. He took it out.

It was neat and looked exactly like the rest but newer and with no hints of crumpling, blood or tears staining it.

The spy unfolded it.

He burst with laughter when he saw the five words written on it, in familiar purple ink.

_“This world is cruel, Mega.”_

**Author's Note:**

> originally, the last letter said "Bastard" instead of "This world is cruel, Mega", but I changed it while transporting this from my word file onto here  
> Let me know what you think is better! : )
> 
> Oh btw- the "action or omission , imputed by the perpetrator " thing comes from the description of crime within the Greek penal code- I'm not sure if imputed is right grammatically though lmao 
> 
> What it means is that the person commiting the crime must be in the position to understand and be conscious of what they're doing. Hope that's not too confusing! If you know a better term please let me know!!!


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